


Seven Devils

by MissScorp



Series: Tale of Two Dopes [6]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Coping Mechanisms, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Identity Issues, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright has Issues, Malcolm Bright is a Mess, Night Terrors, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Protective JT, Psychosocial Theories discussed, Tag to season 2x01, What-If Story, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28868985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/pseuds/MissScorp
Summary: Bright has been acting more Bright than usual. Always a bad sign. None of them, however, were aware of how bad a sign it was until things go horribly wrong and leave Bright fighting for his life.Tagged to Season 2x01, plays around with surrounding events thereafter but is a divergent from the canon plot line.
Relationships: JT Tarmel/Tally Tarmel, Malcolm Bright/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Tale of Two Dopes [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928365
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, and welcome! So, this plot bunny formed based on someone on FB wondering if JT and Dani overheard what Bright said to Chester on that ledge. People all thought no. I thought, what-if? Especially after I went back and watched the scene again and saw the window is open. So, here we are with a story that was supposed to be a short one about identity but which decided to spiral into something else altogether. 
> 
> To be clear, I am a psychology major. My emphasis in school was social psychology with developmental psych as a secondary focus since we didn’t offer clinical (which is where I wanted to go had I continued on). I tend to like Erik Erikson’s theory on development being in stages so I am using that here as my headcanon for Malcolm and his (identity) issues. I’m by no means an expert and am simply writing what I know/think based on the material we have from the show. 
> 
> Also, this story is a sequel of sorts to Holy Water so some spoilers are involved as I don’t follow the season 2 storyline completely. 
> 
> If you like this, please kudo it. Thanks for reading and take care! 🥰

When it came to anything concerning Bright’s skinny ass, JT typically went to Gil for advice. He had years dealing with the guy and his particular brand of crazy.

Gil wasn’t there, however.

He was still recovering from his near fatal stabbing by one of the men in Nicholas Endicott’s employ. That left JT with two people to go to with his questions and concerns about Bright’s latest antics: Sorcha or Bright’s other friend, Raya Kean.

As _Capable_ Bright was in Gotham investigating two bodies found in a house fire that left him with _Mini_ -Bright as his best option for getting answers.

JT thanked whatever gods influenced Gil to get approval to add Bright-Lite as an additional consultant. Bright couldn’t be at every crime scene — to the guy’s frustration — and neither could he and Dani. Having someone else who could work with the other detectives in the unit allowed them to clear cases that might otherwise have remained unsolved for months.

Plus, she spoke fluent Bright.

That, more than anything, made her an invaluable part of the team. Bright was currently absent and that had JT on edge. Especially after the events of the last twenty-four hours. The guy was normally wound tight as the strings on a guitar. Lately, though, it seemed as if those strings were starting to snap. Not good when it came to the guy who almost allowed a killer to inject him with a paralytic agent, chased another killer into an abandoned service tunnel, put a loaded gun to his head, got kidnapped by said same serial killer, dived out a window onto Gil’s car after a black widow was accidentally armed, fried his brain... twice, and a ton of other shit JT didn’t care to recall at that moment.

Bright was clearly standing on a ledge. And not the one he was on last night, either. Hopefully, Bright-Lite could provide him with some insight as to what might be going on in the guy’s head and how to handle it.

Before the guy did something stupid.

A silent Bright was, after all, an especially dangerous Bright.

“Where’s your crazy ass boyfriend?”

Sure, JT found it strange she worked in a cubicle on the opposite side of where the guy he once likened to the state of Florida typically worked, but he didn’t ask why. Figured it was the way they kept work life separate from home life.

“Uh-oh, he’s my boyfriend today.” Mini-Bright looked up from the file she had been going over, lips quirked at the corners, and dark eyes brimming with humor and a fatigue JT understood too well. They all had been pulling insane hours the last few weeks. “Must mean he’s gone and done something Brighter than usual.”

JT grunted as he perched on the edge of her desk. “Yeah, you can say that.”

Not that him holding onto a guy several stories up and essentially questioning if he should let him go _wasn’t_ Bright being Bright. He was a profiler, after all. PSYOP was the guy’s specialty.

Something about this time, though, felt... _off_.

JT just couldn’t explain why.

Hence why he came to talk with Mini-Bright. If anyone could make sense of things, it was her. Bright-Lite set her pen on top of the open file laid out across her desk and leaned back in her chair to regard him curiously.

“You’re talking about what happened in the sex dungeon this afternoon?”

JT didn’t need to wonder about how she knew what went on down in that sex dungeon. Dani also had taken to talking with Mini-Bright about Bright while Gil recovered. Something that surprised JT given the animosity between the two while Bright was suspected of the murder of Eddie Smith.

“That,” he said with a slight nod, “but also what happened on the ledge last night with our perp.”

Something she clearly didn’t know about given her puzzled expression. “I thought everything went according to plan with Chester?”

“Mostly, it did.”

“Mostly?” Her brow furrowed. “Meaning it mostly didn’t.” Mini-Bright heaved a sigh. “Alright, what did my disastrous half say or do?”

JT let his gaze wander the bullpen as he collected his thoughts. It was largely empty given the late hour. A number of people still milled, however. People talked enough about Bright. They didn’t need to have more shit to use against the guy.

“Let’s talk in Gil’s office,” he suggested. “Don’t need to give people more ammunition against Bright.”

“Okay.” Lite-Bright pushed back her chair and stood. “After you.”

They made their way through the bullpen, JT stopping occasionally to answer a question or sign off on something. He’d be glad when Gil returned and took over command. He didn’t overly mind the questions but the endless amounts of paperwork and phone calls were enough to drive him to drink. He caught Dani’s questioning look as he ambled by her cubicle.

“Bright,” was all he needed to say.

“He’s gone down to talk with Edrisa.” Dani turned back to her computer. “Should give you ten minutes. Twenty if they get into another discussion about bondage techniques.” JT could see the baffled amusement on her face in the computer screen. Common when it came to Bright. “Apparently, nylon is the best material for bondage.”

“If he’s ever off on a tangent or can’t focus,” a trace of wry humor coated Mini-Bright’s voice, “ask him about soft bondage restraints.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dani said.

“Trust me, that can keep Malcolm talking for an hour, minimum.”

“Bright talks about enough weird stuff.”

“Can always file this under things to use to distract a manic Bright.”

JT made his way towards Gil’s office with a soft grunt. “That list is longer than my arm.”

“Long as the Brooklyn Bridge now, actually.”

JT suspected that list had grown while the two sheltered-in together in Bright’s loft over the summer. How she managed to keep her sanity during those months, JT didn’t know. Stuck with Bright for an extended period of time was high on his list of things he wanted to try and avoid in his lifetime.

One of the few positives to come out of the shelter-in order was Bright and Mini-Bright officially acknowledging what he and everyone else knew all along. Not that they didn’t have times where they backtracked and claimed they were only friends. He just called them out on their shit.

To Lite-Bright’s amusement and Bright’s bafflement.

JT pushed open the door to Gil’s office and went inside. He always felt like a trespasser when he entered this room. This was sacrosanct territory, after all. A place he never would have entered before without knocking and waiting for permission. He longed to see Gil seated behind the desk, phone in one hand, a harried expression on his face, and a forgotten cup of coffee by his free hand.

Gil wasn’t seated behind his desk. He wouldn’t be for another week or two, at least. Until then, it was _unofficially_ his office. Not that he used it for anything but conversations about Bright with Mini-Bright.

“I keep expecting to walk in and find Gil seated at his desk.” Lite-Bright closed the door behind her. “Barking at someone on the other end of the phone for not doing something or rubbing his face because he’s got to call Jessica to explain how Malcolm got hurt.”

“Again.”

“Good point.” She hummed a laugh. “He didn’t have to explain the mangled bushes, the electrical short or the thousands of nails in the wall by the bed and ceiling, though.”

JT cringed as he imagined how each of those happened. “Guy’s definitely a menace with power tools.”

Non-power tools, as well. He hadn’t forgotten how Bright used an axe to chop off a man’s hand to save him from the bomb he had been strapped to.

“He is, yes, but that’s not what you brought me in here to discuss, is it?”

“No.” JT perched on the edge of Gil’s desk. “I wish Bright using that nail gun was the only reason I wanted to talk.”

“Oh, he’s upped his Bright game, I see.”

“I’m probably making a mountain out of a mole hill here.”

“It’s never a mole hill with Malcolm.”

“Look, I know the guy’s typically wound too tight.” Understatement of the century by JT’s way of thinking. “The last few months, though, he’s been...”

“Wound tighter than usual?”

“Yeah.”

“Well.” Mini-Bright took a seat on the couch. “Eve’s murder, his bastard of a father almost being killed and then being sent to prison, accused of murdering Eddie Smith, Gil almost dying, Endicott assaulting Ainsley, and then being forced to shelter-in for most of the summer...” she broke off to sigh. “It’s played hell on him mentally.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“But?”

“There was something different about the way Bright talked with Chester.” JT’s brow furrowed as he recalled the snippets of what Bright said. “Almost as if he wasn’t PSYOPing the guy so much as trying to debate with himself what he wanted to do.”

“Psychologists tend to play a game of mental chess,” Mini-Bright said. “It’s how we gather information from patients and suspects.”

That made sense to JT. However...

“How’d you define him saying that maybe it comes down to what he wants?”

“That... that’s not PSYOPing.” A mixture of concern and anxiety swam across her face. “That’s Malcolm questioning his morality.”

That didn’t sound good to JT. “Why’d he be questioning his morality?”

“Because much like his identity, Malcolm’s morality is tied to others. He modeled much of his moral fiber after Gil’s because it was opposite of his father’s.” Mini-Bright tucked her hair, worn long now because of the pandemic, behind her ears. “His questioning that fiber now suggests someone or something shattered what he thought his morality is.”

JT frowned. “Phone records show Bright talking to someone on his phone after he left the hospital. Think it was his pops?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if Martin Whitly got his hands on a cellphone and called Malcolm.” Her face twisted with anger and disdain. “Martin Whitly’s a resourceful and crafty predator. He knows how to control and manipulate. Get what he want.”

“He’s also in Bright’s head.”

“He’s been in Malcolm’s head his entire life. He’s the voice Malcolm can’t silence no matter how hard he tries.” Her fingers curved atop her knees. JT imagined she wished they were Martin Whitly’s face. Not that he could blame her. The guy not only murdered twenty-three people but seriously screwed up Bright while at it. “That man stole Malcolm’s identity by repeatedly telling him they’re the same. His autonomy, fractured. His ability to trust himself and others shattered. Filled him with guilt, shame, and doubt.

All of which contributes to his issues with intimacy, problems with reading social cues, and created a sense of inferiority in him. He’s the son of the Surgeon. That’s how Malcolm has seen himself for over twenty years.”

Something Bright shouted to all of New York while on that ledge with Chester. JT believed he’d simply been using his usual rhetoric. Now? He wasn’t so sure. “However,” Mini-Bright said, eyes narrowed into thin, speculative slits. “It sounds like he’s questioning that.”

“Questioning his identity?”

“I think Malcolm Bright is trying to figure out who Malcolm Bright is.” Her eyes strayed to a photograph on the table beside the couch of a younger Bright with Gil’s wife, Jackie. “He’s wondering who and what he stands for. Which is good because it means he’s finally starting to work through some of his trauma. However, it also leaves him vulnerable to influence and manipulation. Things his father excels at.”

“So, do we keep him away from his pops?”

“Malcolm isn’t ready for that,” Mini-Bright said with a sigh. “Much as part of him wants to cut his father out of his life forever, another wants a relationship with him. That’s part of what Malcolm has to resolve.”

“So, what do we do?”

“We give him all the support and encouragement we can. Offer guidance and positive reinforcement. Help him as much as we can with figuring out the answers to the questions he’s clearly starting to ask himself.”

Bright-Lite once called Bright a roller coaster ride. JT could see his skinny ass being one of those crazy ass Fourth Dimension roller coasters he watched on YouTube over the summer.

_Bright: The 4D Experience, coming to a theme park near you._

Thrill seekers would be in for the rides of their lives.

JT wasn’t looking forward to it but friendship wasn’t always about doing what one liked or enjoyed. It was about supporting someone as they struggled to overcome a situation, lifting them up when they were down, carrying them when they couldn’t walk on their own.

Nos mos vallo.

_This we’ll defend._

He told Colette Swanson after Bright was kidnapped by John Watson that he was one of them.

Part of the team.

A brother-in-arms.

That meant JT would always have the guy’s back.

No matter what.

A glance at the clock on the wall showed it was just a little after six. He promised Tally he’d try and be home for dinner. He couldn’t go, though, until he sent his team home. Starting with the most difficult member: _Bright_.

“Why don’t you go get Bright’s skinny ass and head home.”

“Actually, I’m going to drag his angsty ass to his therapist for some couch time.” A small smile curved Bright-Lite’s lips. “Much as he’ll protest it.”

“Offer to buy him some nylon rope if he goes.”

Her dimples winked. “See, now you’re starting to figure out how to deal with Malcolm Bright.”

“Yeah,” JT rumbled as he headed for the door. “That it’s starting to not be weird scares the shit outta me.”

“Keep telling you he’s the ultimate roller coaster ride.”

“How do you put up with it?”

“I don’t put up with it,” Mini-Bright said as she followed him from the office. “I love his chaotic ass. That means accepting him for who he is.”

“Even if he don’t know who he is.”

“He’ll figure it out, JT. With our help.” A hand rest on his arm for a brief second. “Now, go kiss your waiting wife.”

 _Tally_? JT’s brow furrowed. _She’s here at the precinct_? He glanced around and found his wife talking with Dani and Bright by the exit. Tally’s head turned and their eyes met. A smile wreathed her face as she gave a little wave. The fatigue, uncertainty, and pressures weighing heavy on him melted away at seeing her.

“Did you have a hand in this?” he asked Bright-Lite.

“I did, yes.” She gave his shoulder a playful little nudge. “Thought that one of us should have a quiet night with our significant other. And since mine doesn’t do quiet nights at home...”

“Yours likes to throw axes.”

“Another phone call I got to make. Now, go give your pregnant wife a kiss or else I’ll get Mal started on the criminality of the wrong flavored Jello.”

“I’m out.”

“Thought so.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sorcha eyed Malcolm through narrowed eyes as she crossed the bullpen with JT. He didn’t look altogether different from when he had stopped at her desk after returning with Dani an hour ago. His black overcoat was a bit mussed from his bit of demo work, his pants wrinkled and coated in a thin layer of dust.

His hair wasn’t as neat as it normally was but given his antics down in the dungeon, not all that unusual. There was a rather tantalizing line of stubble skirting the line of his jaw and surrounding his mouth begging for her fingers to scritch.

His face — and Sorcha was the first to say it was a spectacular one — was animated as he related something he found interesting to Tally and Dani. Neither who looked quite as amused or as impressed as her danger prone dope. 

Malcolm’s skin still held a bit of the tan he picked up while they were upstate at her parents old house during the lockdowns that engulfed the country. Against it his eyes, them gloriously beautiful eyes she loved staring into were a stunningly rich shade of blue.

His face was a bit thin, the hollows in his cheeks deeper because he had lost himself in his current case and forgot to eat anything other than Twizzlers and Jello the last few days. Despite her reticence about his skipping meals, she had to admit he had a sort of intriguing starving-scholar sorta look about him. _Definitely be hot for teacher_ , she mused as he ducked his head to hide a smile.

Faint smudges beneath his eyes reminded her he’d been foregoing sleep as much as food. Shadows swirled beneath the chaotic energy suffusing his face. Sorcha suspected it related to what JT revealed in Gil’s office about Malcolm’s questioning of his morality. The slight tremor to his hand that he tried to conceal by curling it into a fist further confirmed her suspicion about Malcolm starting to question his identity.

Malcolm largely avoided processing his traumas because he was terrified of the answers he’d get to his myriad of questions. It couldn’t be avoided forever, though. Some point Malcolm Whitly and Malcolm Bright needed to merge into one Malcolm. Who that Malcolm was, nobody knew. They could only bet there for him as he figured it out.

“Hey, gorgeous,” she purred as she sidled up against him. “Looking for a good time girl?”

“That’s entrapment.” The smile he bestowed on her bore equal parts fatigue and amusement. “You realize that, right?”

“I got an in with the fuzz.”

“JT or Dani could still put you in cuffs.”

“Oh, free cuffs!”

“We have handcuffs.”

“Had,” Sorcha corrected. “I had to use them on the woman who tried to perform open-heart surgery on you in our loft.” 

“Ah…” Malcolm coughed softly. “Right. Tammy Lynn.”

“What happened to her?” Tally asked, brow creased. “Did they send her to an institution before the pandemic locked everything down?” 

“She was the last one transferred before the new mandates were implemented,” JT told her. “Agent Kean took custody of her personally.”

“So, she’s locked away and can’t come after Malcolm or Sorcha again.”

“Not unless she breaks out of Arkham Asylum.” 

Sorcha shared a mildly amused look with Malcolm. Neither of them burst JT’s bubble by mentioning how frequently inmates broke out of Gotham’s mental institution, though. Things had been chaotic enough over the summer what with John Watkins having managed to escape from Claremont. _Not that anybody believes he actually escaped_ , Sorcha mused as Malcolm’s fingers lightly brushed hers in silent request. She obliged as Tally breathed out a relieved sigh.

“Good,” she said. “She hurt enough people.” 

“Speaking of hurting people...” Sorcha fixed Malcolm with a wry look. “What did we decide about you and power tools?” 

“I wasn’t trying to shoot Boyd,” he protested. “I was cutting him loose!”

“You weren’t trying to shoot up our bedroom, either.” 

He had the good sense to at least _look_ apologetic for that incident. “That was an accident.” 

“Yeah, those happen a lot around you,” JT said dryly. “That’s why Gil and I have to fill out so many incident reports.”

“And why the department agreed to hire Sorcha,” Dani added. “Bright-Wrangler.” 

“I’m not a wild horse,” Malcolm said, unamused.

“Too bad,” Sorcha joked. “Could put that nylon rope at home to use.” 

“Information I did not need,” muttered JT. 

“You weren’t the one in the car with him.” The exasperated amusement in Dani’s voice echoed her facial expression. “I thought he had a real thing about Jello but I clearly was wrong.” 

“Chains?” Sorcha guessed. 

One dark brow arched. “How’d you know?” 

“He’s not a fan of whips.” The reason of which was because of a former girlfriend who took the use of them too far. Not that Sorcha divulged that. “Chains, though, are up there with soft restraints.”

“Fact we talking about this in the middle of the station house don’t bother anybody?” 

“Not bothering me,” Tally said with a smile. “It’s all tongue-in-cheek.”

“Still weird as hell.”

“We need a little weird in our lives.” Tally patted her burgeoning belly. “It’ll help keep us sane after this little one gets here.” 

JT’s face softened. “Long as they’re healthy is all that matters to me.” 

“Sean said the same thing before Ian Jr. was born.” Malcolm’s fingers slid between her own. “Remember?”

“Hmm?” 

Malcolm was staring at JT and Tally, his face wistful and totally unguarded. Seeing his longing was like a fist to her heart. Children was a closed subject with him, his fear of them turning out like him or worse, his father, his reason for not having any. 

It didn’t stop him from the wanting, though. 

Normalcy was the one thing Malcolm craved with every fiber of his being. A circle of friends, a family of his own, the ability to go out places and do things other people did without the fear and anxiety normally weighing him down. Things he could have once he figured out who Malcolm was and what he most wanted from life.

“Sean said the only thing that mattered to him was Ian Jr. being born healthy.” 

“And Ian was born healthy.” Sorcha stroked her thumb over the back of his hand. “Baby Tarmel will be, too.” 

“Got a little over a month to go.” Tally patted her stomach. “Then Baby Tarmel will make his or her appearance.”

“Baby Tarmel can just wait to make his or her appearance, too,” JT said. “Got enough “I’ve got enough with being the boss and catching weird-ass killers.”

“Gotta month,” Tally told her husband, “then the next adventure begins.” 

“Speaking of adventures...” Sorcha sent Malcolm a teasing grin. “Feel like going for a drive?”

Malcolm’s lips twitched. “Last time you asked me that we had to call Gil to come get us.” 

“That’s because the car ran out of gas.” 

“You took his car.” 

“How else were we going to get to Atlantic City?” 

“Bus.” 

“Bus wasn’t impulsive,” Sorcha pointed out as Tally laughed softly. “Taking the LeMan’s was.” 

“You stole Gil’s car?” Dani asked, one eyebrow quirked. “Seriously?”

“We _borrowed_ it,” Mal corrected. “That was Sorcha’s justification, anyway.” 

“You got me the keys.” 

“You made a persuasive argument.” 

“You’re easy to persuade,” she joked. “Twizzlers and Dum-Dum’s.”

Mal rolled his eyes. “I was not persuaded to steal Gil’s car by Twizzler and Dum-Dum’s.”

“No, I also promised to buy you that lovely flintlock now in your collection.” 

“You stole Gil’s car to go buy some antique gun?” JT grunted and shook his head. “Yeah, not even surprised.” 

“You’ve done some rather questionable things for love.” Tally looked at her husband with an expression that was all feminine smugness. “Like taking that street sign in high school because it had your girlfriends name on it?” 

“Time to bounce.” JT gently nudged her towards the door. “Can stop for burgers and milkshakes on the way home.” 

“Pizza rolls.” 

“Bought two bags last night.” 

“That was last night.” Tally waved at them as JT nudged her out the door. “Nice seeing you all again.” 

“You too.”

“I’m going to go, as well.” Dani’s face was cautiously guarded. As it had been since the night Gil had been stabbed. Trust had been broken by what happened. Regaining it’d take time. Progress had been made, though. Sorcha was confident things would eventually return to how they had been before Endicott came along. “Night.” 

“Night, Dani.” 

Malcolm blew out a soft breath once they were alone. “JT pulled you into Gil’s office to talk about me, didn’t he?” 

Sorcha didn’t see any reason to lie or prevaricate. “He did, yes.” 

“That’s how you knew about what happened with Boyd.”

“No, that’s how I found out about what happened on that ledge with Chester.” 

“Ledge?” Malcolm’s brow crinkled. “I told you what happened on the ledge with Chester.” 

“You neglected to add the part where you ran a soliloquy about morality.” 

“A soliloquy about morality?” His frown deepened. “What are you talking about?” 

“You running through reasons for why you should or shouldn’t let Chester fall?” 

A flash of guilt, fear, and something more crossed Malcolm’s face. All confirming her suspicions. “I was not going to let him fall.” 

“You thought about it, though.” 

He scowled balefully at her. “We promised to not profile each other.” 

“That wasn’t profiling.” Only silently did Sorcha admit she was technically profiling him. Only not about that. “Mal, you’ve been questioning your identity since discovering Sophie was alive. Not unexpected given a large part of your trauma revolved around this girl you kept seeing and who you believed was a victim of your father.” 

“I’m—”

“What did we say about that word?” 

He heaved a disgruntled sigh. “Not to use it.” 

“Because?” 

“It sets your nerves on edge.” 

“And?”

“Because I’m almost always lying.”

“Right.” She squeezed his hand. “Let me go grab my purse and tablet and we can leave, okay?” 

His face brightened. “Can we take that drive you mentioned?” 

“Sure.” She indulged herself by scritching the stubble lining his law. “After your therapy session.” 

Malcolm’s face fell. “I thought we agreed I could take a break from therapy.” 

“No, you agreed,” she said, tone firm. “I said we could negotiate.” 

Malcolm, predictably, objected. “I don’t need to see Gabrielle.” 

“What if I promise to get you that sword you were eyeing yesterday?” 

Interest flickered, as she expected it would. Tempting Malcolm was easy when one knew what to tempt him with. “The 18th century Corsair pirate cutlass?” 

“Even toss in that 18th Century French Flintlock Pistol.” 

His lips twitched. “Bribery? Seriously?” 

“Hey, JT suggested nylon rope but I’m saving that for something big... like dinner with your mom this Sunday.” 

A look of sheer horror suffused Malcolm’s face. “You didn’t.” 

This time, she had the courtesy to make the face. “I did.” 

“Sorch,” he whined. 

“It’s one dinner, Mal...” she said as he groaned. “And I’m cooking so it’ll be things you can eat.” 

That didn’t mollify him in the least. “I was perfectly happy not having dinner with my mother.” 

“I know you were.” Sorcha took his other hand. “We spent five months in lockdown, though, unable to see our family except from across a tablet or phone screen.” 

“Your family isn’t like mine.” 

“Your family is mine,” she reminded him gently. “They became mine when you became mine.” 

The raw vulnerability that filled Malcolm’s face hit her with the force of a runaway train. That he could still doubt their relationship after all this time hurt. Part of that was because the ten-year-old boy Malcolm still was in many ways had lost his ability to trust after his father went from being his hero to the monster in the dark. 

The monster placed conditions on his love. Used it to convince his son to do things that he inherently did not want to do. Offered up praise when Malcolm did as instructed. Punished by criticizing when he couldn’t do as demanded. Creating a man who didn’t know who he was or what his morals were because the boy never developed them for himself. 

“Let me go and grab my things.” Sorcha squeezed Malcolm’s hands before stepping back. “Then we can stop off at home to grab some tea and cookies before heading to Gabrielle’s office for your appointment.” 

Where Malcolm Whitly and Malcolm Bright would hopefully start to merge together. Into who, Sorcha didn’t rightly know. They’d weather it as they had everything else since they met in a Harvard classroom fifteen years ago: _together_. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Sorch?” Malcolm whispered into the shadows dancing around the loft. “Are you asleep?”

Stupid question. A quick glance at the digital clock on the nightstand revealed it was a little after three. Malcolm grimaced. Of course, she was asleep.

He had been, too.

Until he started dreaming about chopping up Nicholas Endicott’s body and disposing of the dismembered pieces. 

His stomach cramped violently as images from his dream came back to torment him. A tangy, coppery smell fouled the air. His face and hands felt as if they were covered in sanguinary goo. The smile that wreathed his lips as the teeth of the handsaw he used bit into Endicott’s rapidly cooling flesh chilled him to the core of his being. 

Bile foamed into his mouth as the sound of bone and sinew splitting broke through the white noise filling his head. Malcolm forced it down with a strength of will he hadn’t known he possessed.

He also didn’t want to wake Sorcha by throwing up on her. His breath clogged in his throat, whistled out from between his clenched teeth. The urge to run pulsed through him. He didn’t give in because of his restraints and the woman nestled against him.

“Your belly still bothering you?”

“Yes.”

Sorcha’s hand instantly slid from where it had been resting on his chest to his violently cramping belly. “Want me to go make a hot water bottle? Some tea?” 

“Yes—no.” 

“Yes, you want the hot water bottle, no on the tea?” 

“No, I don’t want tea or a hot water bottle.” He sounded petulant. Like a child out of sorts. Having a temper tantrum. He couldn’t help it. Everything inside him _hurt_. Guilt and fear he’d upset her with his childishness made him apologize, though. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” No heat, no censure. Just patient understanding and sympathy. As always. “You don’t feel well.”

Of course, she’d get it. 

Sorcha got _him_. 

Didn’t make his attitude okay, however. Nothing about him was okay. Whenever he said he was fine, he was almost always lying. 

Not that _she_ didn’t already know that. 

Sorcha understood him because she took the time, put in the effort, dug under his defenses to learn about who he was.

_Who_ , not _what_.

His being the Surgeon’s son interested Sorcha about as much as playing golf.

Watching documentaries on the evolution of flies appealed to her more than his being the son of the Surgeon.

Malcolm jerked when her hand slid beneath his shirt to settle on his burning stomach. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay.”

It wasn’t.

Not that he needed to tell her that.

“Do you want me to move my hand?”

He’d sooner chop his hand off before telling her to move hers. “No, I don’t want you to move your hand.”

“I won’t then.” She started to rub in slow, soothing circles. “Just thought rubbing your belly might help settle it. It did the last time it was upset.”

“It’s not you,” he whispered as his body slowly relaxed under her gentle ministrations. “It’s me.” 

Her hand stilled. “Are we about to have another of our middle of the night talks about you not being broken or needing fixing?” 

“When you say talk, you mean argument,” Malcolm said, sighing.

“Right.” She resumed rubbing his belly. “If we’re going to argue, though, I want to get up and make tea.”

“We argue because you refuse to accept I’m broken and can’t be fixed.” 

“Because I don’t agree with that particular opinion.” 

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” 

Especially given the context of his night terrors of late. Malcolm had become hyperaware of how broken he was after this series of dreams started. Normal people didn’t envision themselves cutting up dead bodies. _Or taking satisfaction in it_ , he added as his belly pitched and rolled. 

“Talk to me, Mal.” Soft, cajoling. Giving him the choice to spill his secrets or do what he normally did: lock them deep inside himself. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Malcolm let out a hollow laugh. “You’ll leave if I tell you what’s wrong.” 

She should have left him long ago.

He didn’t tell her that, though.

He was skating on thin ice as it was

“Did I leave when you told me about the girl in the box?” 

“No...” 

“Did I leave after you confessed about what you did to that kid in boarding school?”

Malcolm had forgotten he told her about Remington Academy. About Nicky. “No…”

“Did I leave when you told me about stabbing Watkins?” 

Malcolm huffed out a breath. “No, but-”

“Did I leave after you told me about how you felt after you locked him in that trunk?” 

“No.” His hand spasmed on her lower back as he flashed back to that murder room his father and Watkins used before he turned him in. “This is not about me locking Watkins in a trunk or stabbing him.” 

This was far, far worse.

“Talk to me, Mal.” Gently entreating as her hand continued to soothe the miasma burning a hole in his belly. “Say only as much as you feel comfortable saying if that’s what you need.”

Malcolm sucked in a breath as he considered how much of his dream to reveal to her. Sorcha had not gone to Quantico to train as a profiler. She had no need. She had been raised by one of the best profilers to serve the agency. She’d easily figure out what he had dreamed if he wasn’t careful.

“My night terrors...” He began as the shadow creatures laughed and jeered from the far corners of his mind. “They’ve become...” He struggled to find the right words to convey this new horror movie being played in the theater inside his head. “They’re...” 

“Darker?” 

Tremors rattled from his fingers up to his elbow. Hard enough he was surprised Sorcha didn’t make a comment about it. _She’s used to it_ , he realized as she softly started to hum. _Used to me being a chaotic mess_. 

This, though went beyond his normal level of emotional maelstrom. 

He wasn’t seeing a girl in a box, stabbing a man in self-defense or feeling a feral ferocity as he stopped a man hellbent on killing his mother and sister. 

He dreamed he chopped the man his sister murdered into pieces with a handsaw. 

More? 

He _liked_ it. 

That was the part rocking Malcolm to the core of his being. He derived a specific kind-of pleasure from taking that saw and slicing into Endicott’s body. 

The sort his father told him he took whenever he cut into his patients and his victims. 

‘ _We’re the same_ ,’ his father whispered from the front of his bed. A smile wreathed his face and danced in his eyes. ‘ _Never forget that, my boy. We’re the same_.’

“No!” His shrill cry disturbed Sunshine who chirped from the sleep perch they built into their headboard. Shamed, humiliated, and wanting to throw up, Malcolm mumbled, “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Jasmine and vanilla wafted up to replace the sickly sweet smell of Endicott’s blood as Sorcha tucked her head beneath his chin. “Is your father in this particular nightmare?” 

“Not physically.” Thankfully. “He’s... on the phone.” 

_Which is bad enough_ , Malcolm admitted silently. Especially when he was the one who encouraged him too...

“Is it Endicott you’re dreaming about?” 

Panic was an icy poker jabbing his belly. He had feared she’d deduce what his dream was about even without him giving her any specifics. Malcolm normally found Sorcha’s keen intellect and deductive abilities stimulating. They were two of the qualities he admired most about her, in fact. 

Just not tonight. 

Not when she was getting to close to uncovering his shameful truth. He couldn’t — _wouldn’t_ lie to her, though. Sorcha deserved better than that; better than him. 

Not that she agreed with him about that, either. 

“Yes.” More tremors rattled from his fingers up his arm. Some hard enough to rattle the restraints he insisted on wearing when these new night terrors began a few weeks ago. Sorcha fought him, as she always did, but he stood firm on his using them because of the depth and severity of his dreams. If he hurt himself, fine. He’d sooner toss himself out his window than cause Sorcha an ounce of harm, however. “It’s Endicott.”

“Are you dreaming about what happened?” Softly, gently. “About what Ainsley did?”

“No.” The word stuck in his throat. “No, this happened after that.”

_Sort-of_ , he amended silently. 

“After?” He could understand her confusion. He was, too. “I thought Batman arrived right after what happened and took charge of the situation?”

“He did.” 

_And knocked me unconscious before I could do what I do in my dream._ That’s why Malcolm didn’t understand _why_ he was dreaming about cutting Endicott up and disposing of his remains. Batman arrived less than five minutes after Ainsley killed Endicott.

Yet, the grim hero wasn’t part of this dream in any shape or form. The only thing that happened in this dream that was real was his sister taking that knife and plunging it repeatedly into Endicott’s chest.

“So, you’re dreaming of a different scenario? One where Batman didn’t arrive and take charge of the situation?”

Again, Malcolm appreciated Sorcha’s deductive skill. A small part of him stirred at her unraveling things without him giving her much to build from. Another night and he’d turn this into a game. Test her profiling capabilities.

Just not tonight.

Not when he was the subject and she close to figuring out the truth. A truth he was terrified of telling her. He needed to distract her. Get her off the subject. 

By no means an easy task. He had to try, however. He couldn’t let her figure out his secret.

“Do you know what my biggest fear is?”

“Becoming like your father.” 

Malcolm grimaced. Of course, she’d say that first. Why wouldn’t she? He had only been saying it for fifteen years. “My other fear.” 

“Killing someone.” 

_This isn’t going at all as I hoped_.

Not that Sorcha was wrong in her answers. His greatest fears were becoming like his father and killing someone. There was just another fear he had. One Sorcha, predictably, wasn’t considering. 

“You.”

“Me?” Sorcha’s hand stilled on his stomach. “Why are you afraid of me?”

“You’re the most important person to me.” 

“Actually, Gil is.” 

Frustration pulsed beneath the myriad of other emotions hammering at him. He was to blame for this. For her not seeing how important she was to him. 

“Sorch...” 

“Gil is the most important person to you. Then Ainsley, your mom.” Her voice dropped to a growl when she said, “That rotten bastard you call father.” 

“You’re more important than him.” 

“Well, I do buy you the right flavor of Jello...” 

Brevity was her way of pulling him from his dark moods. Normally, it worked. Not tonight, though. He couldn’t forget the sights and smells or thoughts and feelings stemming from his dream.

“I am terrified you will leave if I tell you about my dream.” A lone tear slid down his cheek. “About what I do in it. How it made me feel.” Another tear joined the first. “You will see me as the monster I have always told you I am and walk away. For good this time.”

Sorcha caught him by surprise when she twisted and straddled his hips. A wave of heat shot up from his toes to warm the parts of him coated in a thin film of ice. The shadow creatures inside his head scurried to the corners of his mind as light flooded into the caverns of his brain, taking the images of him chopping Endicott up with them. 

“I told you before I wouldn’t leave you,” Sorcha said fiercely. “That’s not going to change, Mal. No matter what.”

“You don’t know...” 

“That you’re dreaming about having done something to Endicott?” She folded her arms across her chest. “And under encouragement from your father?”

Malcolm’s breath expelled from him in a _whoosh_. She hadn’t figured out what he had done but she was close.

Too close.

“I-I didn’t do it.” He lowered his eyes from hers. Afraid of seeing the horror and disgust churning inside him on her face. “I didn’t do it.”

“What, Mal? What didn’t you do?” Malcolm couldn’t bring himself to tell her. To sick, ashamed, and disgusted about what he did and how he felt as he did it. “Mal?” 

“I can’t...” Bands formed around his chest, around his head. Tightening, tightening until he couldn’t draw a decent breath. “Please...” 

Not that he needed to plead with her for what he needed. 

Sorcha got it. 

She got _him_. 

_Fifteen years_ , he realized as she started to hum. She had been making him feel as if he was not the monster he believed himself for fifteen years. 

_“Here comes the sun…”_ She leaned down to rest her forehead against his. “ _Here comes the sun…_

_And I say._

_And I say._

_It's all right.”_


	4. Chapter 4

Sunshine played with a piece of fruit as Sorcha hummed along with the stereo. It was all part of the routine they developed over the summer lockdown orders. Malcolm exited the bathroom as she poured hot water into waiting mugs, hair still slightly damp, face annoyingly free of whiskers. He immediately headed for the closet to select one of his many suits to attire himself in. Sorcha eyed him as she continued putting together a breakfast he wouldn’t touch.

Most people would see an attractive man in nothing but a towel. Some might think he looked a bit tired. Chalked it up to working late at the office one too many nights. They didn’t know Malcolm. Had no idea the smudges under his eyes were from more than lack of sleep, the hollows in his cheeks caused by consuming nothing but Twizzlers and sparkling water for the past week. They wouldn’t know the shadows in those mesmerizing eyes came from the traumas inflicted on him by the man who claimed parental status. 

Sorcha didn’t know what exactly Malcolm’s latest dream was about. The fact he refused to tell her indicated it was not his run of the mill night terror. No, he had done something in this dream which greatly disturbed him. Given it involved Endicott, she had a pretty good idea what he might have done. _Especially since he admitted his father was on the phone in the dream_. 

Martin Whitly having any contact with Malcolm concerned Sorcha. More so given Malcolm’s recent questioning of his identity and moral fiber. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she told JT he was increasingly vulnerable to the manipulation of his father. Molding his son while he was in this transitionary state would be simple for Martin Whitly. Especially given the conditioning tactics he used when Malcolm was a child. 

_He could easily convince Malcolm to test his moralistic boundaries_. _Even get him to do something like dispose of evidence._ Her brow furrowed as that thought played through her mind. _Could that be what he did in the dream?_ _She wondered as Malcolm rifled through his closet._ _He disposed of Endicott’s body because his father convinced him it was the only way to protect Ainsley_? 

It’d explain his shame, she realized as Malcolm hung a deep blue jacket on a peg. The fear and doubt. The guilt. Getting Malcolm to confirm her suspicions wouldn’t be easy, though. While his panic attack hadn’t quite reached the range of his worst meltdowns, it had come dangerously close. The contents of this dream clearly terrified him. _No_ , she thought as he selected the matching pants and a pristine dress shirt. _They outright horrify him_. 

“Did JT text while I was in the shower? Send over any new leads on the case?” 

“He and Dani are running down last known addresses of your suspect.” Sorcha moved to him and folded her arms around his waist. Offering comfort and support despite his not asking for it. “Said he’ll text if they find anything.” 

“I could—”

“Stay home with me.” 

Malcolm went still as a statue. “What?”

“You could stay home with me.” 

He angled his head back to look at her. “You‘re not going in today?” At her nod, he frowned. “Why not?”

“Garcia’s in court and Wachinski’s up north for his granddaughter’s wedding,” she explained as he relaxed against her. “I was planning a stay-at-home day, anyway.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She had been planning one. She just didn’t tell him she had decided on requesting it that morning. “So... stay home with me.” Sunshine chirped excitedly from her perch atop the faucet. “See, even Sunshine likes the idea of you staying home with us.”

Malcolm’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He was pretending he was fine because he didn’t know how to let himself _not_ be fine. A byproduct of growing up in a house where emotions were largely repressed and problems solved with pills, booze, and sarcasm. Sorcha had no choice but to let it pass. He wouldn’t tell her the truth if she asked and it wasn’t worth adding to the stress they were already under. 

“What would JT say if I text him and told him I’m going to stay home today?”

“Well... I think he’d send a gif of Joaquin Phoenix dancing on those steps in the Bronx.” 

His small laugh vibrated through him into her. “You already suggested me staying home to him, didn’t you?” 

“I did, yes.” 

“Sorch...” His sigh was ripe with fatigue and a slurry of other things. “I need to work this case.”

“Malcolm, I normally would give in here and agree you need to maintain your routine.” 

“But?” A speckle of wry humor darkened his tone. “I smell a but here.”

Sorcha harrumphed. “However, I’m using one of the cards we agreed on in therapy.” She rest her cheek against his shoulder as the Beatles started to play. _Of course_ , _he’d have Here Comes The Sun in his playlist rotation_ , she mused, as the familiar words washed over her. “You need to take a mental health day.” 

_We both need a mental health day, actually_ , she amended silently. The last few weeks had been insanely busy ones between his cases and hers. There had been days where they only saw each other when they were either coming home or heading to a crime scene. After last night, they needed time to regroup, regenerate, and above all, rest. 

“I need to finish this case.”

She expected Malcolm to put up a fuss. Wouldn’t be him if he didn’t. Time to switch tactics, she decided. _If he won’t listen to logic_ , she mused as Selina rubbed against her leg, _maybe he will fall for temptation._

“We can bake cookies.” His eyes sparked with interest. As she anticipated. Fresh baked cookies were hard for most people to refuse. She decided to sweeten the deal by also offering, “We can binge the final season of _The Clone Wars.”_

 _“_ Yesterday, you propositioned me in front of Dani and JT.” His dimples winked. “Today you’re bribing me with cookies and cartoons?” 

“Well, if I thought sex would actually work...” 

An eyebrow cocked. “You don’t think it would?” 

Sorcha’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean there’s a chance it actually would?” 

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “I’m crazy, Sorch, not stupid.”

“Oh, well, in _that_ case...” 

...

Sex hadn’t been how Sorcha initially planned to convince Malcolm to stay home with her. She didn’t use such blatant ploys to get what she wanted from him. Largely because Malcolm was manipulated enough by his father. It also went against who she was. The only thing that assuaged the bits of guilt swirling in her belly was the fact she hadn’t actually finagled him into bed. 

He basically instigated things by insinuating it’d work. 

Something she now believed _he_ intended when he insinuated it. 

Malcolm could be deceptively manipulative. Being a profiler necessitated his being that way. He also was subtle when it came to his personal wants and needs. He never asked so much as indicated with either a touch of his hand, a given look or a set of carefully chosen words. 

“Beginning to think you planned your own seduction here,” she murmured.

Malcolm’s lips curved against her shoulder. “Are you complaining?” 

“Not at all.” Sorcha sifted her fingers through his hair. “Best idea you’ve had since suggesting we remodel your office and make it big enough for us both to use.”

“I like us working together.”

“Me too.” She smiled into his hair. “JT likes it, too. One less thing he’s gotta worry about.” 

“Gil’s back today so he doesn’t have to worry any more.” 

Sorcha hadn’t known Gil was returning to duty that morning. “Is that why you allowed yourself to be so easily seduced?” She gently tugged his ear. “To avoid Gil?”

“No.” Malcolm leaned up one elbow to look at her, gaze open and honest. “I promise that’s not why I agreed to stay home.”

He looked so charmingly disheveled she softened. As she always did when it came to him. “I believe you.” 

A boyish grin tugged at his lips. “Though I do want to avoid the lectures I’m going to get from Gil.” 

Sorcha snorted a laugh. “You deserve them.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side here.”

“I am on your side.” She ran her fingers along his arm. “I just know you deserve a few Gil-Lectures.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “You ran after Edward Marsden without waiting for backup.” 

Sorcha grimaced. “And Gil, as well as both my uncles tore into me for it.” 

“Really?” 

“Mhm.” 

“You deserved it.” He laid his head back on her shoulder. “You took a serious risk chasing after him.”

“Channeled my inner Bright.”

“One me doing dangerous stuff is enough.” 

“Funny.” Sorcha stroked the back of his head. “That’s what they said.”

“I bet.” Malcolm’s voice became thick and sleepy. A telltale sign of how exhausted he was. Not that he was ready to concede to sleep just yet. “Sorch?” 

“Hmm?”

“Do you dream?” 

“As in REM dreams or just things I dream about doing but never will?” 

“There’s a difference?” 

“Well, I somehow don’t think we will ever fly through New York on the back of dragons.” 

He angled his head to look at her, one eyebrow tilted. “You dream of flying on the back of a dragon?” 

“It’s a dream, right?” 

“Yes...” 

“Okay then.” 

“So, you dream of us riding dragons?” He reached over to pet Selina when she jumped up on the bed. “What else?” 

“Well, there’s also this recurring dream I have where we are locked in a grocery store and have to find all the hidden clues in order to escape before the Twizzlers get it.” 

That surprised a laugh out of him. “Not the Jello?” 

“That’s who is holding the Twizzlers hostage.” 

“Must be the red Jello.” 

“Lemon.” She reached over to scratch Selina beneath the chin. “It was jealous over your relationship with the Twizzlers.” 

That earned another soft laugh. “Do you ever dream about us doing normal things?” 

“Hey, I see a Jello Killer in our future.” A giggle escaped her when he sighed. “You have to admit the media is pretty bad about the names they’ve given to some of the killers we’ve chased.” 

“Corpse Bride Killer is better than some names they have chosen.” 

Sorcha snorted a laugh. “Only reason that name stuck was because Ainsley used it in her broadcast. Otherwise, they’d have kept that horrendous name they were using.”

“Do you ever dream about us? Seriously?” 

“Of course, Malcolm.” She traced the scar left from the ice pick Tammy Lynn stabbed him with. A permanent reminder of how close she came to losing him. “I dream about all sorts of things.” 

“Like what?” 

If Sorcha wasn’t aware of the dream plaguing him she might have found this line of pillow talk a bit strange. However, she suspected Malcolm’s questioning had to do with figuring out if his dreams were normal or another example of how messed up he was. 

“Well, I dream about that trip we took with Gil and Jackie for one.” 

“I remember that weekend.” A faint wistfulness crept into his tone. “It’s one of my favorite memories.” 

“That’s because you finally let yourself have fun.” 

“You insisted on it.” 

“Don’t recall you complaining.” 

“Again, crazy, not stupid.” 

Sorcha thumped him lightly on the back of the head. “You’re not crazy, Mal.” 

“I’m—”

“Word.” 

“I wasn’t going to say fine.” 

“You also are not allowed to use the word broken. Not unless something is actually broken,” she clarified. “Then you are allowed to use it.” 

He harrumphed but conceded by asking, “Do you know what I dream of?” 

Sorcha wondered if he was about to reveal the contents of the dream haunting him. “No, what?”

“You in that red dress you wore that Valentine’s Day.” She remembered that Valentine’s with equal parts smug satisfaction and bitter anger. A call a little after seven, Mal’s voice cracking as he told her about Leslie breaking their date, and a peasant dress Mandy suggested she wear turned a disastrous evening into a magical one. “I always see you in that dress.” His fingers slid over hers. Silent invitation. Sorcha smiled and turned her hand, linking their fingers. “You wore it when you came to me in that murder room of my father’s and Watkins.”

Another point in time where she thought she lost him. Malcolm proved his resiliency, however. He got himself out of his restraints — breaking his thumb to accomplish it — and stopped Watkins before he hurt his mother and sister.

“Does seeing me in that dress help ground you?” 

“Yes.” 

She pressed a kiss to his head. “That’s all that matters then.”

Silently, Sorcha decided to pull that dress out of the closet. _It could prove useful_ , she thought as she slowly drifted to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Valentine’s I am referencing is from a scene in Here Comes The Sun for those curious.
> 
> Malcolm’s scar is also from another work, Demons or Angels (since it is from Sunshine’s POV).


	5. Chapter 5

He shouldn't have stayed home. _Staying home_ came with the possibility of having that conversation Malcolm wanted to avoid. Going to work allowed him a reason to dodge his dream. For a little while, anyway. Something inside him hadn't been able to refuse when Sorcha asked him to stay home with her. Truth, if he was being honest with himself was he did need this. His dreams about chopping up Endicott, Gil's recovery from his stabbing, the lockdowns, and the crop of cases he had been working had taken a toll on him physically as much as emotionally.

It had been weeks since he slept more than an hour or two. Eating slid to Twizzlers and sparkling water. Maybe an occasional yogurt or fresh muffin if Sorcha pushed. Taking care of himself consisted of showering and shaving. _When she wasn't hiding my shaving kit_ , he amended as their ten month old cat, Selina made herself comfortable on Sorcha's pillow. Their game of hide-and-find-Bright's-shaving kit had been the only bit of non-murder related fun he allowed himself. Looking back, Malcolm could see where he fell back into old patterns to cope with his stress.

" _One step back for every three forward_ ," was what Sorcha said after he finished his session with Gabrielle. " _Soon, it will be one step back for every one forward_."

Malcolm hadn't wanted to agree with her. He was broken in his mind. Unfixable. However, he couldn't deny Sorcha had been right about him needing to continue his therapy sessions. Gabrielle had been able to provide clarity on a few issues and help him see he was damaging himself and his relationship with Sorcha by returning to his old patterns. A few of her points had been a bit too Freudian for his liking but he agreed to give her suggestions a try since he didn't have any real reason not too.

Last night had been a few firsts. It had been the first time he broached the topic of his identity with Gabrielle in a manner that wasn't only about his father. Malcolm had also suggested they stop for won ton soup and gelato on their way home. His way of meeting Sorcha in the middle on his eating issues. It was also the first time in weeks he and Sorcha went to bed at relatively the same time. He had been too exhausted to go upstairs on the pretense of working on a profile. He had nothing to work on. They already knew who their killer was.

They just needed to find him.

Still, a part of Malcolm hesitated at crawling into bed with Sorcha. Sleeping beside someone wasn't the same as sleeping with them. Not in his opinion, anyway. Sleeping with someone required trust. Something Malcolm admittedly struggled with. It also added another layer of intimacy to a relationship. One that could often get sticky if people weren't careful. Malcolm didn't let people sleep with him because of his night terrors. He strapped himself to his bed with special restraints because he feared hurting someone while in the grips of some dream.

As he almost hurt Eve the night he let his guard down.

Sorcha accepted his sleep issues back when they were attending Harvard. She understood his night terrors and his fear of what he could do while locked within his mind. His needing restraints was another matter. As was sleeping with him. Malcolm's lips curved as he recalled the way she decided to prove she could sleep with him without him causing her any physical harm.

" _Are you going to sleep on top of me_?" he asked even as she tucked her head beneath his chin.

" _That's my plan, yes."_

_"Why?"_

_"To show you how not afraid of you I am_."

" _Sorch_." Malcolm wouldn't, couldn't admit she set off aches in him that throbbed like a bad tooth. Need, want hummed in his blood. The feel of her body against his, the smell of her sent erotic images shooting through his brain — desires, demands he couldn't satisfy. Sorcha was his best friend. He had no right to think about those things. Not with her. She deserved better than a freak like him. " _You're being ridiculous_."

" _Our first class starts at eight."_ There was no budging her, he had realized, turning his nose into her hair. If he was being honest with himself — and he rarely was — he'd admit he didn't want to move her. He wanted to pull her closer, in fact. Hold her as normal people held those they loved. He couldn't do that, though. He couldn't risk hurting her. " _Might want to try and sleep before then."_

They didn't make class that morning. A family emergency caused Professor Blayne to cancel that class and the next two. Things changed between he and Sorcha after that night. Malcolm found himself trusting her to sleep next to him. More, he enjoyed it. Found himself craving it when they were home on breaks. Sorcha still chose to fall asleep on top of him at times. Especially when she wanted to make her point about not fearing him hurting her when in the middle of a night terror. Sometimes he gave in and slept, too. Most often, though, he stayed awake and watched her sleep.

Like he was doing now.

He wondered if she was dreaming. The wrinkle between her eyes suggested she might be. Likely about him doing something she and everyone else considered _Bright_ -ish. Not that he didn't admit to doing some questionable things while working cases. Some things he would agree were dangerous even. Caused him serious injury. He didn't stop to consider the consequences or potential harm to himself when he chased after informants or potential suspects. His focus was on stopping people from dying or bringing justice to someone who had died.

JT hung a white board in Gil's office a few weeks after he joined the team that he called the _Days Since_ tracker. He said it was a way of keeping tabs on all his _Bright_ -ish moments. Malcolm hadn't been amused about the board but tried to take it in stride. He was new to the team, was an acquired taste, and well, he had had a lot of _accidents_. Now, though, he viewed the board as their way of letting him know they were watching and concerned for his safety and well-being.

"It's impolite to stare," Sorcha mumbled against his shoulder. "Especially when someone is asleep and not aware they're being stared at."

Malcolm's lips curled up at the corners. "I like watching you sleep."

"Do I snore?"

He chuckled softly. "No." He wouldn't tell her even if she did. "You don't snore."

"Liar." She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "But I love you for it."

"Go back to sleep." Malcolm skimmed his fingers up and down her back in the same way she did his when he was knotted with tension. "You didn't sleep much last night because I woke you."

"I want you to wake me when you have something bothering you," she said drowsily. "We can't work on issues if we don't talk to the other about them."

"I know."

"But?" Humor speckled her yawn. "Smelling a _but_ here, Mal."

Malcolm harrumphed. "I could wait until morning to talk about these things with you."

"Some issues need to be discussed in the moment. Remember, Mal, always keep your thoughts in the moment."

"Yes, Master Jinn," he lightly teased.

"Hey, you cope with life by solving murders," she returned playfully. "I cope with _Star Wars_ and _Batman_."

"I ordered you a replica of Obi-Wan's lightsaber." He hadn't meant to tell her about it. He wanted to surprise her with it. His mouth, though, was set to rapid-fire. "It should be here next week."

"Mm, see you were shopping instead of sleeping. Not," she added, "that I mind when the item you purchased is something that makes my little Obi fan girl heart very happy."

"Figuring if I'm not sleeping that I can do something useful."

Her soft, "mhm," tickled his throat. "Definitely can't complain about you falling asleep after sex."

"Sleep is overrated."

"Not to chronic insomniacs."

"I'm not one?"

"No." Sorcha leaned up to look at him. "You're just a man with devils all around you. Tormenting you while you're awake. Haunting you in your dreams." The sadness in her eyes cut Malcolm deeply. Happiness was what he wanted to see brightening those dark depths. "There's no escape for you. Even when you're solving a murder the devils surround you."

His devils were the other thing Malcolm didn't want to talk about. They all led back to his dream. He gently nudged her off him and sat up. "Why don't I make us some coffee?"

"Mal…" Her hand rest on the back of his shoulder. Offering comfort and support. As always. "I'm not stupid. I know this dream is about Endicott. You confirmed that last night." Malcolm remained silent. What could he say? He had told her the dream was about Endicott. That his father was involved. "I also am wise enough to realize that you've done something in this dream that horrifies you and sickens you. Knowing you fear becoming a killer like your father, I'm going to guess you dreamed you killed Endicott instead of Ainsley."

Panic and dread churned in Malcolm's stomach. Sorcha was trained in the same background as him. She specialized in trauma because of him. Chose to counsel members of the armed services became many came back from deployment like her brother, Sean. She dealt with dreams like his all the time. Hadn't he feared her figuring out what his was about for that reason?

" _She hasn't figured out you've discovered murder is the ultimate thrill,"_ his father said. " _That what's got you all torn up inside, my boy. It's not that you murdered someone. It's that it didn't feel bad."_ A smile appeared through his thick whiskers. " _No, it felt good."_

She would figure it out soon enough, though. _Then she will leave me_. The pressure in Malcolm's chest was making his head light, but he forced himself to think, to consider his options, to chose how to respond. The truth, he realized, was his best course of action here. Start simply. Keep to the facts. Skirt the details. Tell her only what she needed to know. _And pray she doesn't figure out the rest._

"No," he told her quietly. "I didn't kill him." His hand spasmed. He clenched it into a fist to hide it. "What I did was worse."

Much, much worse.

"Worse?" He could hear the frown in her voice. Imagined the concern in her eyes. "Worse how?"

"Sorch…"

Her name came out a low, plaintive whine. Malcolm didn't care. He'd beg if he had too. Promise to see Gabrielle five times a week if it'd keep her from pushing him about his dream.

"Mal, this dream is tearing you apart." Softly, gently. Entreating, but leaving the decision of whether to talk or not to him. "Talk to me about it. Please."

"I can't." No matter how desperately he wanted too. "You'll leave if I tell you the truth."

"No, I won't." Hard as tempered steel. "No matter what you tell me, I'm not going to leave you."

Malcolm wished he could believe her. He ached to believe her. He just was too afraid of what'd happen if he did.

"No." A tear ran down his face. "No, I can't."

"Safe place, remember?" Her arm curled around him. "We agreed on that in therapy. What we say to each other here in our home stays between us." Malcolm struggled with his indecision. Part of him wanted to bury his face in her throat and tearfully confess. The other part taunted him with visions of her running out of their loft. "Talk to me, Mal. Let me share this burden with you."

"What if…" Malcolm wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. Stared at the man smiling from his kitchen island. Remembering his voice on the phone telling him how to cut up Endicott's body. "What if I told you I… I used a power saw and chopped him up?" Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut but it didn't stop him from seeing his smiling, bloody face. "That I… I enjoyed it?"

"Oh, Malcolm…" Sorcha's voice was ripe with understanding. "I'd say that's your subconscious trying to get you to see who you could be if you weren't the man you are."

"Who am I, Sorch?"

"You're Malcolm." She curled her other arm around him. Held him close. "Malcolm Bright."

At one time, Malcolm would have been comforted by those words.

Now?

Now he found himself wondering who Malcolm Bright was.

And if he even existed.


End file.
